


Point of View

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: “They didn’t mean to fall in love but they fit together so well they couldn’t help it.”</p><p>Or, five times Matt and Patrick convinced others they were meant to be, and one time they convinced themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Point of View

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Rarepairs Fest](http://hockeyrarepair.livejournal.com/649.html?page=1#comments). Go forth, prompt, write! I hope this is something like what the prompter was looking for.
> 
> When I started writing this, I was hearing conflicting things about Dutchy’s roommate in Sochi. I went with Jamie Benn, rather than Alex Pietrangelo. I’m pretty sure I’m wrong, but it was fun to write Jamie anyway, and there’s a reason we call this fiction.
> 
> Also, as of the losses two night ago by both the Avs and the Sharks, the last part of this goes a little AU (no Conference Finals for either). A girl can dream, right?

**1\. Ray Bourque (October)**

Ray didn’t play with Patrick for long. Just a year and a bit, the last months of his career, but winning a Cup together, winning a Cup on Patrick’s back, for Ray, that does something to a relationship. So, he’s kept tabs on Patrick over the years. Watched as he coached the Quebec Remparts, congratulated him when his sons were drafted, and called when Patrick was announced coach of the Avalanche.

“It’s nice to go home,” Ray tells him. Not _congratulations_ , not _you’ll do fine_ , but _home_ , because as much as Quebec is home to them both, Ray knows a little about adopted homes. He hasn’t managed to leave Boston in the 13 years since he’s retired, after all.

Patrick laughs, loud and crackly, into the phone. “Oui, merci.”

“You’re going to have to brush up on your English mon frère.”

Patrick laughs again. “So I will.” His accent lilts at the end of his words, and he talks slower than he would in French, but he’s still got it.

When the NHL schedule is released, Ray circles the 10th of October in red sharpie and calls Patrick again, a week or so before the season starts.

“You’ll be here on Wednesday? The night before the Bruins game?”

There’s the sound of shuffling papers, as if Patrick still hasn’t figured out how to download the team calendar to his phone. He probably hasn’t. “The 9th?” He asks, finally. “Yeah, we will.”

“Schedule a team dinner. I’ll join you.”

“D’accord.”

“You’re paying,” Ray warns. “And I might not be burning calories like I used to, but I can still put away a good steak.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else,” Patrick promises.

***

If Ray’s honest with himself, and he usually is even if he’s not entirely honest with Patrick, he figured this dinner would be a pick-me-up, a pep talk about youth and patience and rookie coaches leading mostly-rookie teams.

The Avs, though, ride in to Boston on a three-game winning streak.

“I’m not sure what to tell a _winning_ team,” he tells his wife, as he balls up his prepared speech and drops it in the trash.

Christianne shakes her head, reaching out to adjust his Avalanche-burgundy tie. Ray has never been very good at tying them. “You won, mon cher,” she reminds him. “Don’t forget that.”

Ray nods, because that’s true. He had 21 losing seasons, followed by his only winning one. One, in the end, is all that matters.

“Why not you?” He settles on, slipping his hands into the pockets of his dress pants as he stands at the head of the table. “Why not this team? Right here. Right now.”

He raises his wine glass, glancing around. They’re young, painfully young, and when he gets to Patrick he, somehow, looks impossibly young, too. “To bringing the Cup back to Colorado.”

Glasses clink – half of them water or grape juice, Jesus, this team is _young_ – and Ray sits back in his seat.

“Not too bad, old man,” Patrick says under his breath, leaning forward across their plates.

“Connard.” Ray glares at him. “You promised me a steak.”

***

“Midnight curfew,” Patrick reminds his players as he finishes paying the bill and folds the receipt into his pocket. 

The team nods and disappears quickly, probably to a bar that will honor Canadian drinking ages, leaving Ray and Patrick alone to have a quiet drink at the hotel bar. Patrick takes of his suit jacket and tie, opening the buttons at his wrists and his collar. Ray laughs. Patrick was always more comfortable in Avs sweats than a suit.

“You look good,” Ray tells him, truthfully, running his finger over the rim of his whiskey sour.

“Really?” Patrick raises an eyebrow. It emphasizes the deep, dark circles under his eyes.

Ray laughs, shrugging. “Mostly.”

Patrick laughs, too, a little disbelieving, a little disgruntled.

“How’s the jump from Juniors?”

“As difficult as it was the first time around.”

“And they say coaches have it easy.”

Patrick glances over the rim of his beer. “No one says that.”

Ray shrugs. “People say that.”

Patrick manages, just barely, not to roll his eyes. Ray can see his eyelids twitch with it, but he’s grown, matured, in the years since he fought Chris Osgood at center ice. “How’s the restaurant business?”

“Good. Easy.”

“Boring?”

Ray thinks about that for a moment. “Probably.” But, then he thinks about his children, his grandchildren, Christianne, who spent 22 years as a mostly single parent. “I don’t mind.”

“All that rich Italian food will kill you.”

“Long after you fall to a stress heart attack.”

“Most likely,” Patrick agrees, finishing off his glass and sighing contentedly. “What a way to go, though.”

He’s talking about hockey, about the ice and the team and the competition, everything Ray’s missed these last few years. “Yeah,” he agrees, a little wistfully.

“Do you ever miss Quebec?” Patrick’s voice is smooth, lilting, as he twists his tongue gently around _Quebec_.

“Sometimes,” Ray admits. Speaking French, mostly, but hearing it on Patrick’s tongue is almost enough. “But, my family’s here, my friends are here, my restaurant’s here.” Boston’s adopted him as much as he’s adopted Boston.

Patrick leans forward, as if imparting a secret. “I missed Denver.”

“Denver’s your home,” Ray knows it, knew it from the moment he arrived all those years ago.

“Yes,” Patrick agrees, as if he’s betraying Canada just by saying it. “My kids were born there, I won my Cups there, my house is there, and, Quebec, there’s nothing there for me.”

Ray raises an eyebrow. He shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t push, but once a teammate always a teammate. “Still haven’t met someone, then?”

Patrick delays, just for a second, probably not even aware that he’s doing it, but Ray catches it, files it away for later. “No.”

“Okay.”

“I haven’t,” Patrick insists.

Ray shrugs. “I heard you.”

“Fuck off.”

Ray laughs. It’s comforting to know that Patrick Roy the coach isn’t really all that different from Patrick Roy the goaltender.

“Hey, didn’t think you guys would still be here. Mind if we join?” Matt’s voice is high, pleasantly surprised, as he spots them and comes over.

“He was totally hoping you’d be here,” Pauly tells Ray conspiratorially as he takes the seat next to him. “Wanted to bask in the aura of his idols, or some shit like that.”

Patrick snorts into his glass, moving his arm so that Matt can take the seat next to him, blushing, eyes furrowed. Interesting. 

Matt frowns. “Fuck off.”

Pauly raises a defensive hand. “I’m not the one with a poster of Ray on my wall.”

“I was eight.”

Pauly makes a big show of pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “I’ll just text your mom then. Make sure it’s no longer there.”

“Don’t.” Matt leans across the table, grabbing for Pauly’s phone. Ray watches, transfixed, as Patrick places his hand on Matt’s elbow and Matt settles, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms. Patrick doesn’t move his hand. Matt doesn’t ask him to. He does glance at Patrick, though, frown deepening, as if this is an ongoing argument. “I don’t hero worship you.”

Patrick squeezes his elbow and lets go. “Trust me, I know. Wouldn’t be so much trouble if you did.”

“Anyway,” Pauly says, slowly, as if he has to break up this same conversation all the time. He accepts his beer from their waitress and turns to Ray. “What was it like? Winning the Cup?”

Ray lets himself smile. He’s missed this, good-natured chirping, youth, team. “Indescribable. Worth all the crap you’ll have to go through first.”

Across the table, Matt’s deep in conversation with Patrick, heads bent together over a napkin Matt’s using to diagram plays. Ray hasn’t seen Patrick like this, so relaxed, so unaware of his own personal space, since his divorce. Ray watches them, until Matt feels his eyes on him and glances up. 

Ray grins at him. “I didn’t have to go through as much crap as you will, though, with this crazy asshole as your coach.”

Matt shrugs. “Goalies are always a little eccentric.”

Ray laughs. Matt might just be the only person Ray’s ever met who can handle Patrick, Ozzie not withstanding. “I like this one,” he tells Patrick.

Patrick blushes, glancing at his watch. “Curfew.”

Matt and Pauly don’t grumble, just finish of their drinks and grab their jackets, before saying their good nights. Ray watches them go, before stretching back out over his side of the table and leveling Patrick with what he hopes is a calculating look.

“That boy is special.”

“Dutchy?” Patrick turns back to the table, as if he wasn’t totally watching Matt walk away. “He’s a hell of a player.”

“Right.” Ray wants to push, but he’s pretty sure that Patrick doesn’t even know how he feels about Matt yet. So Ray keeps his mouth closed, takes a long sip of his drink, and makes a mental note to keep tabs on both of them for the rest of the season. 

This has the potential to be a special team.

 

**2\. Nate MacKinnon and Jonathan Drouin (November)**

When Nate suggested that Jo visit him over American Thanksgiving, he’d figured he'd have moved into his own apartment by late November. He hadn't planned on moving from the Giguere's guest room to Patrick's basement.

"I can still come though, right?" Jo asks, slowly, sounding unsure of himself. 

Nate made him sound like that; he hates it. "Of course," he says, quickly, before he can think about what, exactly, it means to invite his boyfriend to his coach's house. "Just, I live with Coach, so-"

"We could get a hotel."

"I have the Blues game."

Jo sighs. "I'll keep my hands to myself. Promise."

"Not really your hands I'm worried about." 

Nate hangs up as Jo hiccups with laughter, and heads upstairs.

"So-" Nate starts, before he takes the last few basement steps two at a time. "I invited a friend for Thanksgiving, hope that's-" he stops as he slides into the kitchen to see Dutchy leaning against the counter, arms crossed and mug dangling from his fingers. 

"Hey," Nate greets. He should really stop being surprised to see Dutchy in their kitchen. It's happened at least twice a week since he's moved in.

"Hey Razor. There's more coffee. Help yourself."

"Thanks?" Nate's pretty sure he means it. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits at the table, like a normal person. "What are you doing here?"

Dutchy shrugs. "Patrick buys better coffee than I do."

"Okay." Nate shrugs. It is good coffee.

"So," Dutchy reaches out to snag a banana from the fruit bowl on the table, before leaning back against the counter and crossing his ankles. He's wearing tight jeans and a white Henley that hugs his forearms. 

Nate frowns. It's too early for this shit.

"Jo's coming to visit?" Dutchy asks, around a mouthful of banana.

Nate shrugs. "Wants a taste of the big show."

Dutchy snorts. It's almost comforting how unattractive it is. "Right." He finishes off his banana, stuffing it into his mouth, just in time for Patrick to catch him at it.

"Morning boys."

Dutchy's face goes red as he fails to swallow without choking, and Nate hides his grin in his coffee. "Morning," he manages, voice only a little higher than normal around his laugh. "There's more coffee."

"Thanks." Patrick fills a mug, then sticks his head into the fridge, pulling out a number of vegetables. "Either of you want eggs?"

"Sure," Nate says at the same time as Dutchy says, "Fuck yes."

"Language," Patrick chastises, the stupidest smile on his face, as if he has any leg to stand on where language is concerned. He taps Dutchy's hip with his own to push him out of the way of the stove. Dutchy lingers, just for a moment, not really long enough for anyone but Nate to notice, before he moves a few inches away and winks at Nate. Whatever that means.

Nate rolls his eyes. "I invited Jo to the game before Thanksgiving. We have a few days off so, I figured-" Dutchy's grinning. Nate hates being the rookie. "I told him he could stay here. If that's okay?"

Patrick cracks a dozen eggs into the pan and sets it on low before he glances at the table. "I'll order a bigger turkey."

"Cool. Thanks."

"It'll be nice to have more people here for the holiday."

"I'll be here." Dutchy grabs a carrot from the cutting board before Patrick dumps them into the pan. "And you're Canadian. It's not a holiday."

"Never pass up a day that celebrates food and football." Patrick, belatedly, raps Dutchy's knuckles with his spatula. "And you don't count as people."

Dutchy smiles, small and soft. Nate's met a lot of weird guys over the years but, he swears to god, Dutchy takes the cake.

***

Jo flies in on Tuesday and, for the first twenty-four hours, keeps his promise to be polite and respectful in Patrick's home. He does his dishes, says his please and thank yous, and sleeps on the other side of Nate's bed. Nate is, frankly, pretty impressed.

In retrospect, it's unsurprising that Nate breaks first. It's Nate who, post-loss to the Blues and post-too many shots to count, drags Jo into the bathroom at Smitty's and jerks him off. They're mostly quiet, although not really all that quiet, and it's just Nate's luck that it's Dutchy waiting for them when they unlock the bathroom door and stumble out.

"Assholes. I almost went in my pants."

"Hot," Nate deadpans at the same time as Jo scrunches his nose, "Gross."

Dutchy laughs at them. "Go home. The team'll keep Patrick out for a while yet." 

Nate figures Dutchy says _team_ but means _I_ , but he's being offered sex, in his bed, where he can be loud and _naked_ , so he grabs Jo's wrist and pulls him out of the bar without comment.

***

"Is half the team coming to this thing?" Jo complains, elbows deep in turkey brine.

Nate shrugs. "Just a few of the guys. But, with you around, we have to cook for four."

"Fuck off." Jo pulls his fist out of the turkey with a squelch and makes a gagging motion.

Nate rolls his eyes. Patrick did buy a hell of a lot of food, though, made even worse when Dutchy and Pauly show up around noon, laden down with Whole Foods' bags. It's about the same time that Patrick takes control of the kitchen and sends them all into the living room to play video games.

"Kicked your ass again," Jo crows, because he's awesome at NHL14 and he fits in with every team he's ever been a part of. He high-fives Pauly.

"They don't challenge you enough in Juniors? You clearly spend too much time playing fake hockey," Nate chirps, even though he knows it's true, knows that Jo will be in Tampa next year, sharing ice with Nate even if it's not exactly the way Nate wants it. 

"Scared to play me?" Jo winks.

Nate grins and accepts the loser's controller from Pauly. "Never."

Dutchy chuckles, as he stands and stretches. "As fun as this is, I'm gonna go for a run. Burn off some turkey calories before I eat them. Anyone?"

They all give variations of "fuck no"s and settle deeper into the couch. Dutchy kicks Pauly's foot, but when Pauly just waves him off, Dutchy shrugs, puts on the sneakers he inexplicably leaves at Patrick's house, and heads out the front door.

"He's here a lot," Jo observes, surreptitiously pressing his elbow into Nate's thigh.

Nate shrugs. "Yeah."

"Anything-?"

Nate widens his eyes and shrugs again. "No idea. Honestly."

"Cool." Jo turns back to the game, but doesn't move his elbow. It's a pleasant, steady reminder that Jo's here, fitting in with Nate's teammates and Nate's coach. Nate kind of loves it, not that he'll ever admit that to Jo.

An hour or so later, the score reads Jo 5, Pauly 4, Nate an embarrassing 2. He throws his controller at Pauly as Jo's electronic Lightening beat Nate in OT. "I'm going to get some water." He's pretty thirsty. His training doesn't prepare him for this level of video gaming. "Want anything?"

"Beer," Pauly says, already into the next game, and Jo just nods in his direction.

Nate heads into the kitchen, the smells of stuffing and turkey and cranberry sauce getting stronger the closer he gets. He pauses in the doorway, though, when he hears murmured voices.

"Matt," Patrick's voice is low, strangled.

"I know, I know, just-" Dutchy's voice is equally soft, gentler than Nate's ever heard it, and he peers around the doorframe. Dutchy's back is pressed against the kitchen island, one hand in his sweaty hair, the other clutched at Patrick's hip. Patrick's hands are braced on either side of Dutchy, their foreheads close, bodies held taught.

"Me too."

Dutchy tips his head back. His eyes are closed. Nate's chest aches. He's been here before, in kitchens and basements and living room couches at both his and Jo's billet homes, fighting it with everything he has. It sucks.

"Okay. That's- I guess that's good to know."

Patrick chuckles, leans close enough that their skin is touching. "Go take a shower. You're disgusting."

"Right." They stay just like that, for long seconds, until Dutchy finally sighs, repeats, "Right," and pulls away.

Nate retreats back to the living room before Dutchy can catch him.

"No beers?" Pauly asks, without even looking up.

"Oh, ahh," Nate rubs the hair at the back of his neck. "I forgot?"

Pauly pauses the game, turns to stare at him. "You okay, Razor?"

"Yeah, yeah, course." Nate thinks about it for a second, and finds that, really, he is. Whatever the fuck is going on with coach and Dutchy, well, it's not really any of his business, right? "I'll just-" He walks backwards to the kitchen, making a beeline to the fridge without looking at Patrick.

"Dinner'll be ready in an hour," Patrick tells him.

Nate risks a glance at him, and feels himself blush. Nope, definitely too soon. He hightails it out of there, calling, "awesome, thanks," over his shoulder. It's gonna take a little time, is all.

 

**3\. Jana Roy (December)**

Jana sees her father as she comes up the escalator. He’s holding a sign that says ‘Welcome Back to Colorado’ in Avs burgundy and blue. He’s such a dork.

“Hey dad.”

“Hey sweetheart.” He wraps her in a hug. She’s missed him, even if it’s only been a few months. “Thought we’d go to that burger joint you loved as a kid.”

“Steuben’s?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome.” She gives him a high five.

“Good to see you haven’t gone all vegan on me or something, at that hippie school of yours.”

Jana rolls her eyes. She has, actually, been toying with going vegetarian. Her roommates are, and meat is expensive, but, “I love burgers too much.”

“That’s my girl.”

Her dad insists on carrying her bag to the car, a small hybrid SUV that she’d helped him buy over the summer, mostly through texts and shared links. It’s strange to see him climb into the driver’s side, folding his long knees into his seat and watching the little energy display carefully.

“Colorado’s changed you,” Jana tells him, grinning as he groans and throws the car in reverse. The energy symbol beeps.

“My car hates me,” he informs her. 

Maybe Colorado hasn't changed him that much.

“Do you want me to figure it out?” She gestures at the dashboard. He’s always been pretty terrible with technology.

“Please.”

She laughs, digging through the glove compartment for the car manual. It’s about two inches thick, full of diagrams and charts, and she flips through until she finds the right page. “Ah-hah,” she presses the correct button and the beeping stops.

Her dad lets out another groan, his knuckles loosening on the steering wheel. “Thank you,” he draws it out, gratefully.

“No problem. You can pay me in burgers.”

He does, although he also orders a salad that he offers to share with her. She raises an eyebrow at him, lifting it higher when he takes off the top of his bun and sets it aside.

“Uh, watching your figure?”

“Hmm?” He glances up. She nods at his, now sad and half-naked, hamburger. He blushes. “Oh, I, ahh, am eating less gluten. It’s not very good for you.”

“Well, yeah, but, it’s delicious.” She takes a large bite of her own burger, to demonstrate.

He laughs, but he doesn’t eat the other half of his bun. 

***

She drags him out for a run her first morning, through the pre-Christmas snowflakes and frost of early Denver mornings. She can see her breath as she sings Taylor Swift lyrics under her breath, and she blows puffs at him as they jog in place at the first stoplight.

"I changed your diapers," Patrick complains, as the light turns red and he pushes her ahead of him into the crosswalk. "What happened to you?"

She shrugs, settling into her pace. It's nice, jogging next to him, sharing something so simple and grown-up as a pre-dawn run. She's always loved Colorado, hated it when they left. While her brothers moved from Denver to Juniors, she was left to integrate into the Quebec City school system, the day-to-day use of French, and survive the minefield of their parents' divorce, mostly without their help. 

Denver's been revitalized since she moved away, and her dad's new neighborhood is even nicer than the one she grew up in, full of boutiques and manicured lawns and local cafés. They stop at a coffee house on the way home, down bottles of water and order four coffees.

"Four?"

He shrugs, as he hands her hers and starts fixing the other three with measured amounts of cream and sugar. "My house is always open."

Which, she gets that, is pretty happy about it, actually. He's been pretty alone since she left for college a year and a half ago, and she's glad that he has people here, teammates and coaches and management and people who care about, and for, him. 

"We could have bought one of those boxes of coffee."

"Nah. Four'll be good."

It is, too. When they get home, laughing and chilly, laden down with drinks and the morning newspaper from the stoop, Nate MacKinnon and Matt Duchene are at the kitchen table. Her dad hands over cups, as if he knew exactly who would be here and how they like their coffees.

"Thanks," Nate grabs his, downing half of it before he glances at her. "I'm Nate. Or, Razor."

"Jana."

"Cool."

She laughs. He's eighteen, too young even for her. Her dad's adopted _babies_.

"Ahh," Matt shuffles his feet, as if he's waiting his turn, and takes an awkward step forward. He holds out his hand. "Matt." No nickname.

She takes his hand, matching formality with formality. It's kind of strange, but hockey players tend to be taken from their mothers too early, so she's learned to cut them a lot of slack. "Jana. Roy."

"I know." He rubs the back of his head. "I mean, I-" he stops, visibly beating himself up, before settling on, "Your dad said you were coming, showed me a picture so, ahh, you look familiar." He cringes. "Your dad talks about you. A lot. I mean, not too much, but-"

He's tripping over his words, quite literally, and she shares an amused glance with her dad who, graciously, steps in. "Only the good stuff." He winks at her. "Mostly."

She laughs, leaning forward to stage-whisper to Matt. "I can fill you in on all kinds of dad-related dirt later. If you want."

Matt goes red. He's kinda cute when he blushes. 

"Well," she takes a step back, "I'm gonna take a shower. Be back in a few." 

She dawdles, hopefully giving her dad enough time to make his famous blueberry pancakes. When she heads back downstairs, though, there's still cooking going on in the kitchen and she slips into the den before she can be roped into helping.

"Hey," Nate looks up from the couch, a second cup of coffee already in his hand. "I was watching Chopped, but you can change it, if you-?"

"Nah," she shrugs, falling onto the couch next to him and putting her feet on the coffee table. "I'll watch any competition show with knives."

They watch in silence for a few minutes, until Nate turns to her. "Sorry that was weird, in the kitchen earlier. Dutchy's not usually like that."

So he does have a nickname. She raises her eyebrow. She learned it from her dad, and it works every time.

Nate swallows, and continues. "He was nervous, you know, with," he waves back towards the kitchen, "all that."

"All what?"

Nate surveys her for a moment, as if she doesn't have two years and an entire life in professional hockey on him, before he settles back into the couch cushions. "Just, he was nervous. Give him a break."

"Okay," she agrees, slowly, even though she has no idea what she's really agreeing to.

***

Things are a little more normal by the Avs family holiday skate a couple days later. Matt's gotten a little more comfortable with her, although he's around an awful lot for a guy who doesn't live there, and Jana's almost convinced that he likes her. 

Which, if she didn't already have an almost-sorta boyfriend back home, would be tempting. Matt's a nice guy, funny and outgoing, not bad looking, with that ass that only comes with professional hockey players. And hockey players are usually pretty good lays, at least. Not that she wants to even _think_ about sex while staying under her father's roof. Ew. 

Plus, her dad would probably kill the guy. He's not exactly known for having the longest of tempers.

She's trying to think of a way to let Matt down easy, without it getting incredibly awkward, the morning of the party. She's in the locker room, tying up the skates she found in her dad's basement, her fingers shaky and a little cold when, suddenly, Matt's kneeling in front of her, pulling her left skate into his lap.

"My dad used to do this for me, when I was a kid."

"Yeah." She laughs, remembering her dad on his knees, tying hers and Freddy's skates before family skates just like this one. "Mine too."

Matt laughs. "I can't picture that."

"You don't have to." She digs her phone out of her back pocket, opening her Facebook app and flipping through her #throwbackthursdays. Freddy posted one a few months ago of them both, maybe 4 and 6, struggling on their skates while their dad skated backwards, hands out to catch either of them if they fell. She hands her phone over to Matt.

His face softens as he stares at it for a long time, zooming the picture in and out, before shaking himself and handing it back. "That's adorable." He pats her other ankle and she places her right foot in his lap.

She laughs. “I guess.”

He finishes her skate and drops her ankle to the floor, smiling at her from under his eyelashes as he offers. "If you want help out there, I could-" 

She raises an eyebrow. "I've skated my entire life."

"Right, yeah, of course." He glances away, and she sighs.

"Matt, um, you're a really nice guy, and I've had fun hanging out, but," she bites the edge of her lower lip. She hates doing this. "I have a boyfriend. At school. So-"

"No, no, Jesus." She watches as he pales, glancing around the mostly-empty locker room quickly before moving up to sit next to her on the bench. "I don't- I mean, you're a pretty girl, but you're a kid and-"

She frowns. Fuck that. "I'm 21. What are you? 23?"

"Yeah." He rubs his palm on his knee. "But, hockey players, we have to grow up fast, you know?"

She does. She watched Freddy do it. She watched so many of her dad's QMJHL players do it.  
"Yeah."

"I'm sorry if you felt I was coming on to you."

"It's cool."

"I just wanted you to like me. Not _like me_ , just, not hate me?"

"I don't." She pats his knee. "You're a cool guy."

"Awesome." His nose scrunches and he eyes her a little ruefully. "So, think we cannot tell your dad about this?"

"No chance of that."

"Yeah, I figured." He sighs forlornly.

She replays the conversation as she joins the team on the rink, knocking elbows with Nate as he hip checks her. "Okay there, Little Roy?"

She rolls her eyes. "Stop calling me that."

"Whatever you say."

She skates a little closer, lowering her voice. "I just had a strange conversation with Matt."

"Yeah?" He stops, leaning against the boards and looking interested.

"I- I don't know what I was thinking, but he's been acting so strange and, anyway, I thought he was hitting on me. He's not. Was pretty adamant about it."

Nate's laughing, real laughs, bent over his knees and tears at the corner of his eyes. "Oh, this is perfect."

"What?" It's kind of embarrassing, sure, but she doesn't get why it's _this_ funny.

"Just-" He grasps her shoulders, turning her to look at the other end of the rink. "Watch them."

"Who?"

"Watch."

Their shoulders brush as she leans against the boards next to Nate, her eyes drawn to her dad, as they tend to be. His face is open, fond smile and soft eyes, a look she hasn't seen on him in years, not since long before her parents' divorce, before the fights and the screaming and the thrown plates. "He looks happy," she says, her chest warm.

"Yeah," Nate agrees. "Happy's a word for it."

"What's another?" She asks, and Nate shakes his head.

"Watch."

Nate's pretty annoying.

Jana does, however, turn back to her dad. He's skated a few feet, to where Matt's swinging Cody's two year old around his head. She's giggling, kicking her feet, until Matt tackles her to the ice with tickles and allows her to pull his jersey over his head.

It's ridiculously cute.

Her dad thinks so, too, as he squats next to them, laughing, wide and real. Emma grabs onto his knee, wobbly on her skates as he takes over tickling her, giving Matt time to extricate himself from his jersey. He glares at her dad, and says something that makes him laugh and lean forward to whisper something in Matt's ear. Jana doesn't have to hear it to know exactly what a fool she's made of herself.

"He really wanted you to like him," Nate says, again, and, finally, Jana gets what he means.

She wants to sink into the ice. "I'm such an idiot."

Nate shrugs. "You couldn't have known."

"Still-"

"Yeah," he nudges her shoulder, "you're kind of an idiot."

***

Christmas Eve, they host a dinner for all the team who's stayed for the holidays. Matt comes early to help cook, and Jana watches them, quietly, surreptitiously. They're comfortable with each other, small touches and quiet laughter and it feels nice to be here, warm and full and listening to Christmas Carols as she makes sugar cookies and fights Nate for the dough. It feels like family.

Much later, when the team's gone and the dishes are done and Nate's retreated to the basement, Jana joins her father on the couch with two glasses of eggnog. She's even splashed a little whiskey in them. They're going to need it.

"Hey sweetie."

"Hey dad." She hands him his glass, taking a long, fortifying sip of her own and settling into the couch. "You seem happy."

He turns the volume down on NHL Overtime. "I am. So, you can tell your mother to stop asking."

Jana laughs. "She just cares about you," which is a bit of a lie, but, he doesn't need her to tell him that.

"Sure."

"You know, it's been a long time since the divorce."

He turns on the couch to level a glare at her. "Is she bugging you about me not settling down again?"

"No, no, this-" She sighs. "This has nothing to do with mom."

"Jana-"

"Just- Matt's a nice guy. I like him."

He turns to her, his neck and ears red and his eyes struggling to meet hers. Nervousness is a strange look on her dad. "I need you to know that nothing's happened."

She shrugs. "If he's making you this happy, it's all good."

He stares at her, for a long, thoughtful moment, then takes a long drink from his eggnog. "Is there whiskey in here?"

"Yep."

"Alright." He finishes his glass off and drops it to the coffee table. "I'm heading to bed. Merry Christmas." He kisses the top of her head.

"Merry Christmas, dad."

 

**4\. Jamie Benn (February)**

The flight to Sochi is long. Jamie sleeps for most of it, but he's still fucking tired when they arrive. His eyes are gummy and swollen, and he rubs at them as, next to him, Dutchy's almost bouncing in his seat, leaning on the armrest between them to try and peer around Jamie.

"Wow," Dutchy breathes out as the plane peels right, over the Black Sea and, suddenly, the Olympic Park is visible below them. Jamie can see Bolshoy in the distance, even without Dutchy's finger pointing it out. "The Olympics."

It's not that Jamie doesn't get it. He totally does, he's just _tired_.

It's warm when they land - sixty-five degrees and sunny - and Jamie stops halfway down the gangplank to dig through his carry-on for his sunglasses.

"Bennie," Dutchy whines, tapping Jamie's ass and vibrating with energy on the step behind him. Jamie glares at him. He’s already wearing sunglasses, settled high on his nose, and cargo shorts, settled low on his hips. He looks effortlessly awake. 

"Sun," Jamie explains, articulately.

Dutchy laughs. "You live in _Dallas_."

Jamie shrugs. "I'm from Victoria," as if B.C. is any colder or cloudier than Ontario. Whatever. Dutchy is basically from Denver now anyway and Denver has, like, the most sunny days in America or something.

He finds his sunglasses and shoves them over his eyes, before starting down the stairs again to find his luggage and stumble onto the bus to the Olympic Village. He must fall asleep with his cheek pressed against the window, because when the bus comes to a jolting stop he has a crease down his cheek and they're directly in front of the Olympic Rings.

He stops in front of them, adjusting the strap of his bag so it doesn't cut into his neck. 

"We're roommates," Dutchy pulls up next to him, holding out Jamie's key and craning his neck to look up at the Rings. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah," Jamie breathes out, because, yeah, they're pretty damn cool.

***

Jamie goes to bed the minute the coaching staff deems it jet-lag appropriate, Dutchy following closely behind. The beds are short and kind of hard, but they're covered in Sochi quilts and Jamie is too exhausted to notice any of it. He's asleep the minute he falls onto the bed, still dressed in khaki shorts and a Team Canada sweatshirt.

The phone rings sometime in the early morning, long before either of their alarms are set to go off. Jamie blinks at it for a moment, but the ringtone is Whiskey Lullaby, so, not his, and he's already half-asleep again when Matt answers it.

"Hello? . . . Oh, hey! . . . um, yeah, I was, it's-" There's the sound of shuffling, then, "seven. In the morning, yeah . . . no, no, it's cool, I'm, ahh, glad you called."

Seven? Jamie turns towards the window. It's early as fuck. 

The sheets rustle as Dutchy gets out of bed and takes the phone into the bathroom, his voice muffled and low. Jamie has just enough energy to strip down to his boxers before he falls back to sleep and doesn't hear Dutchy come back out.

***

Sid's at their door at 10 am, armed with protein shakes and a hopeful half-smile. "Run?" He asks, when Dutchy stumbles out of bed to let him in. "It's gorgeous out. And I had to bribe the cafeteria to make us these." He puts the shakes at the end of their beds as he heads to the window and opens the shades.

Jamie squeezes his eyes shut. He has no idea why Sid's chosen to torture them, specifically. He’s pretty okay with blaming Dutchy for it, though.

"Jet-lag will kick your ass if you don't maintain a normal schedule."

"Jet-lag's gonna kick my ass no matter what," Dutchy argues, even as he reaches for his shake. "Gluten free?"

"Of course."

Jamie lets Dutchy take a sip first, but when he just frowns a bit, Jamie reaches for his. Jordie's definitely tested worse on him.

Sid also wasn't lying about the day. It's sixty and sunny and the Village butts up against the Black Sea, so they start off on the pebble beach, the waves lapping at their Nike-endorsed lime green sneakers. 

"Was Vancouver like this?" Dutchy asks once they've settled into a steady pace. 

Sid shrugs. "It was different. Playing in your home country is- different," he repeats, as if there’s no other word for it.

"Lots of pressure," Dutchy infers, and Jamie remembers, suddenly, that Dutchy knows exactly what it's like to play on a team at the bottom of the league, too.

He grins and adds, "Fun, though, I bet.”

"Both," Sid agrees.

Jamie hasn't thought a lot about what it's like to be Sid. Jamie's here as one captain on a team of six captains. And Jamie loves leading in Dallas, Dallas is his town, his team, his franchise to revitalize, but this is Team Canada, and Canada is Sid's team in the same way Pittsburgh is. Except, this is also Canada's team, the whole country's, and Jamie just gets to serve it, for a little while. It's freeing, in a way, he guesses, it never can be for Sid, or Tazer, or Shea.

They stop a few miles from the Village to catch their breath and enjoy the slight breeze picking up over the Sea. Matt starts skipping stones, practiced and steady. He's good at it. 

Jamie picks up a handful of pebbles, sorting out the flat ones and then holding his hand out to Sid, who shakes his head. "Oh, no, I can't. I suck."

"Competitive asshole," Dutchy grins, conspiratorially, at Jamie. "He can't play anything he won't win."

"Oh, fuck off." Sid kicks at the beach. "Last back has to do suicides."

"Competitive asshole," Jamie nods his head.

"Yep."

They end at the Rings, collapsing against them, sore and out of breath.

"Picture," Dutchy orders, already climbing up into the red Ring.

Jamie sends the picture to Segs. He gets a Marshall-and-Segs selfie in return.

***

The phone rings at seven again the next morning, but at least this time they're both mostly awake. Dutchy's in the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and hair dripping down his chest. He puts his phone on speaker as he dries off, the door open to let out the steam from his shower. Jamie's pretty sure Dutchy thinks he's still asleep.

"Hey."

"How's Sochi?" The voice sounds familiar, authoritative and accented in a way Jamie recognizes, even tinny and hollow as it is through Dutchy's speaker phone.

"Beautiful. And much less jet-lagged."

"Good."

"Still miss you, though."

Dutchy hasn't said anything about a girlfriend - boyfriend? - and Jamie gets the distinct feeling that, maybe - definitely - he's not supposed to be overhearing this.

There's a long silence, then, "How was practice? Where does Babs have you playing?" Which is definitely not the right response. Jamie can be a pretty oblivious boyfriend, and even he knows that. 

Dutchy, though, just plays along, voice steady, as if he expected nothing less. "Extra. Marty and I."

There's another long silence.

"Patrick?"

"Babs doesn't know what he's missing."

The voice sounds angry and Dutchy laughs delightedly. He has a pretty contagious laugh. "You miss me, too."

"I've gotta go, Freddy's game starts in a few. Oh, and, Jana says 'hi.'"

"I say 'hi' back."

"Thanks. And, ahh, I do, okay? It's only been three days, but, I do."

"Wish Freddy luck."

"Will do."

The phone goes silent. Jamie has no idea what to make of the conversation, and he pretends to just be waking up when Dutchy wanders into the room a few moments later.

***

"Isn't this, like, consorting with the enemy or something?" Jamie asks, as he follows Dutchy to their seats at Shayba for the US-Canada women's prelim game.

Dutchy shrugs. "Don't know. This is my first Olympics. I plead the fifth."

Pauly and Landy are both dressed head-to-toe in team colors, but they raise their hands for high-fives as Dutchy and Jamie settle next to them.

"You guys know Bennie, right?" Dutchy asks as he settles his beanie more thoroughly over his forehead. "No need to borrow trouble," he tells Jamie, out of the corner of his mouth.

Pauly rolls his eyes, "Sure," and waves. He's only two seats away; it's pretty dorky. Jamie likes him. 

"So, Sochi's pretty nice," Jamie says, conversationally.

Dutchy snorts. "Nice? That's all you got?"

Pauly pushes him into Jamie's shoulder and Jamie laughs. "It's 'awesome.' Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

Pauly stretches his legs out and shakes his head. "Jesus. I haven't missed you."

"That is a blatant lie."

Pauly shrugs. "Can't prove it." But he holds out his hand and he and Dutchy re-enact some sort of complicated handshake that Jamie can't follow. On Jamie's other side, Landy shakes his head.

"Don't ask." He winks, then leans around Jamie to peer at Dutchy. "I talked to Razor this morning."

"He burn the house down yet?"

"Not yet."

"He has time," Pauly butts in.

"True," Dutchy nods knowingly.

Landy ignores them both. "Patrick asked him to ask me to check up on you."

Dutchy rolls his eyes. "I can survive a healthy scratch."

"Matt-"

"I'm good," Dutchy insists. "Just happy to be here."

"He said he called you this morning."

"I was sleeping."

He wasn’t. Jamie had been futzing with his iPad when the phone went off this morning, right on schedule, but Dutchy had let it go for a few bars before silencing it and heading into the bathroom for a shower. Jamie had thought it was weird at the time, but hadn't given it too much thought. Landy and Pauly certainly seem to think it's significant, though.

"That doesn't usually matter. Not for you."

"Maybe I was being considerate of Bennie's sleeping schedule." Dutchy motions towards Jamie.

Jamie frowns. "Doesn't stop you any other morning."

Dutchy turns red. It suits him. "I, ahh, thought you were still asleep."

Jamie shrugs, and Landy steps in. "Stop trying to distract us from the point."

"Stop being my captain. I have a new captain, and Sid's much less nosey than you are."

"I don't stop being your captain just because you got a new one. Temporarily." Landy frowns, obviously weighing his words before he says them. "And Patrick doesn't stop being your coach just because you're an ocean away."

Landy pauses on 'coach' as if that's not exactly the word he'd like to use, and something niggles at the back of Jamie's mind. It's the same thing that was niggling at him a few days ago, with that voice on speakerphone.

Dutchy sighs. "I really am fine, and I really was tired this morning."

Landy stares at Dutchy for a long, uncomfortable moment, and Jamie squirms just because he's in its path. Landy's, like, three years younger than him, the fuck?

"Okay," Landy finally settles on, before turning back to the game.

There is definitely something that Jamie's missing here, something important. His phone beeps, a text from Segs - _fraternizing w/the enemy?_ \- and a link to a Deadspin picture of the four of them, hats pulled over their eyes and dressed in three different team colors. Perfect.

***

By the end of the qualification round, Jamie's no closer to figuring Dutchy out.

"I don't know, dude. Why don't you, like, ask him or something?"

"He's kind of intimidating," Jamie frowns. "What if I'm totally off base?"

Segs scoffs. His Skype image freezes for a moment, and Jamie shakes his iPad until it unfreezes. "You're kind of intimidating. You can take him."

"Maybe."

"And if you're wrong? He'll just laugh at you. Dutchy's a good guy."

"Yeah, I know, but-" Jamie shrugs. 

He knows Dutchy's a good guy. He's been an awesome roommate, clean and mostly respectful of the ridiculous amount of time Jamie spends sleeping. He's also kind of weird, though. He wears flannel shirts over his Avs t-shirts to bed, plays the most bizarre mix of country and hard rock out of these little speakers that connect to his old-fashioned iPod, and talks non-stop. He's also incredibly smart, like, book smart, not hockey smart.

Dutchy knows what he's doing and, if he wanted Jamie to know about whatever's going on, Jamie would know.

"I've got an ocean waiting for me. Can we freak out about this later?"

Jamie stops thinking about Dutchy and his maybe, possibly, somewhat secret affair, or whatever. "You just want a pina colada."

"With pineapple on the rim," Segs agrees.

Jamie sighs. "Yeah, yeah, go."

"Awesome." Segs blows a loud, exaggerated kiss into the camera and then he's gone. Jamie has no idea why he's falling for him.

***

"You never thought about-? With Mario?"

"What?" Sid's voice is high-pitched, defensive, surprised. "No."

"No what?" Jamie asks, closing the door behind him and dropping his jacket onto his bed. He can see Sid and Dutchy on the porch through the open sliding glass door.

"No, I never thought about having sex with Mario." Sid waves at the mini-fridge at the foot of Jamie's bed. "There's beer in the fridge, if you wanna join."

"I did," Jamie admits, grabbing a can and a chair and settling next to Dutchy on the porch. "When I was a kid. His hands-" Jamie shakes his head, trailing off as he thinks about it.

"That's different," Sid argues. He's clearly already had a few, his voice smooth and easy. "I thought about Mario's hands, too. On a stick, not, you know, on my _dick_."

Jamie grins. "There wasn't much distinction when I was 12, ehh?" He used to have posters of Mario and Jagr on his wall, and he'd be lying if he said neither of them ever featured in his pre-teen jerk-off fantasies.

"Ugh, stop, stop." Sid raises his hands to fend Jamie off. "Mario's my mentor. I lived with him. And his _children_."

Dutchy crosses his ankles on the balcony railing, tipping his chair back on its back legs. "I'm not just talking about sex. I'm talking about, you know, more than that."

Sid tilts his head, as if he's actually thinking about it. "I still can't. There's just- too much there. History and power and-" Sid shakes his head. "Nope, can't go there."

"What if it didn't have to be like that? What if you were equals?"

Sid shrugs. "I don't know. I don't know how to be equal with Mario, or Gretzky, or any of those guys."

"Me neither." Jamie can certainly sympathize with that, now that he's met the guys. "I'm always gonna be a bit in awe of Modano. He makes me feel like a little kid."

Dutchy sighs, loudly, sadly. "Yeah."

Jamie frowns. He doesn't know what he said, but it clearly wasn't what Dutchy wanted to hear. "Why are we even talking about this?"

Dutchy doesn't say anything.

Sid shrugs. "Matty's just being weird."

Dutchy shakes his head, coming back to himself. "What's new, right?"

Sid laughs and tips back his beer. Jamie does the same. He has some catching up to do.

***

_u figured dutchy out yet?_

Jamie stares at his phone. Eventually, he types back _no_ as petulantly as he can electronically, then focuses on Dutchy, who's on his phone out on the balcony. Jamie probably shouldn't be listening, but it's hard not to as Dutchy's voice lilts up happily, talking faster and more up-beat than Jamie's heard him all tournament. It makes something that he doesn't really understand twist in his chest.

"Yeah, yeah, center. It's gonna be good, yeah. I'm- ahh," Dutchy laughs, free and open, "gonna know what I'm doing. Finally."

Jamie feels like he's listening in on something intimate, something he's not a part of and shouldn't be.

 _he's weird_ , Jamie texts.

 _ask him_.

The days Segs is more logical than he is are sad days.

The glass door slides open and Dutchy slips inside, murmuring "me too, oui, yeah. After the game, promise," before he hangs up and collapses on his bed. 

Dutchy sighs. "I can't be happy that Jonny's injured." His eyes stay guiltily on the ceiling, as if he hasn't paid his dues, dressed in a suit, and watched the Norway and Latvia games from the edge of his seat in the Team Canada suite. 

Jamie shakes his head. "It's okay to be happy for the opportunity, though." Jamie would be.

"Yeah," Dutchy agrees, slowly. "I guess. As long as it doesn't make me an asshole."

"It doesn't," Jamie assures him. Jamie's pretty sure of it.

***

They beat Sweden for the Gold. For Jamie, it's not a Stanley Cup, but it's pretty damn close.

Sharpy has the locker room soaked in champagne and Jamie's not sure if he's drunk or high on adrenaline or coming down from the past two weeks, but he feels hazy, slow, a little out of his mind. Enough so, at least, that when Dutchy's phone rings through the celebration - Brad Paisley unmistakable as Whiskey Lullaby cuts through the Rhianna Carts has playing on the team speakers - Jamie sneaks out after him.

He finds Dutchy in the trainer's room, sitting on the massage table, dressed in his boxers and a Team Canada shirt, picking at the plastic edge of the table as he stares down at his phone. "Maybe, when I'm back, we can celebrate."

"With a Stanley Cup, yes."

"Yes, with a Cup." Dutchy laughs. "But, maybe, also, with other things?"

There's a groan, tiny and scratchy through the speakers of Dutchy's iPhone. "We'll see. If you still want."

Dutchy sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I'm not going anywhere. And don't say anything about Russian girls and Vodka, if it hasn't happen yet, it's not going to."

Patrick laughs. "You're a better man than me."

"Well, duh."

Patrick laughs again. "There's no one else for me, either, okay? Hasn't been for years."

"Never has been, for me."

There's a long silence, then, quietly, as if it's the first time they've said it, "If I was there, I'd kiss you."

From the way Dutchy's shoulders tighten, Jamie figures it probably is the first time he's heard it. Suddenly, this whole thing feels a lot less like a game and a lot more like something important, monumentally so. Jamie feels like an asshole for listening in.

“Promises, promises,” Dutchy finally says, biting his lip and asking, his voice choked off. "What else would you do to me?" 

"Don't push your luck."

Dutchy laughs. "You're ruining our moment."

Even Jamie can hear Patrick rolling his eyes. "Go away. Celebrate with your team, mon amour."

Dutchy's whole body softens. "I'll see you in a couple days."

The phone clicks off and Jamie wants to slip out of the room, he really does, but he steps on something plastic and loud and Dutchy jumps, spinning around to catch Jamie huddled awkwardly in the door.

"Bennie?"

"Yeah, ahh, I was coming to find you?"

Dutchy stares at him and, yeah, Jamie's the worst liar. He's even worse at subtlety, so he sighs and, finally, just asks.

"Are you dating Patrick Roy?"

 _Hall of Fame, best-of-his generation, twice-your-age, Avs' head coach, Patrick Roy?_ Jamie shakes his head even as he's asking. He's an idiot for even thinking it, none-the-less voicing it.

Dutchy's face is red as he shakes his head. "No."

"Are you sure?" It's out before Jamie can stop himself. It's ridiculous, of course it's ridiculous, and Jamie doesn't want to push. It's not his place, he's not Dutchy's captain, not here, not in Colorado, not anywhere.

Jamie's been paying attention, though, and the phone calls, the conversations with Landy and Pauly, with Sid, they all add up and, from where Jamie's sitting, he's pretty sure. He adds, "It's not any of my business, but, we're teammates now and-" Jamie shrugs, "it just seems like you are."

"I can watch out for myself," Dutchy snaps, quickly, automatically, but then takes the time to measure Jamie, to really look at him, as if he hasn't done so before now. It's a long moment, and then Dutchy's whole body slumps against the massage table. "And no, I'm not sure."

"Okay."

"That's it?"

Jamie shrugs. "It's kinda weird, but, glass houses and all that."

"Huh." Dutchy doesn't ask.

Jamie kind of loves him, just a little bit. "Yeah."

"Patrick and I- we're not, but, we will be." He sounds so sure of it, like it's already a foregone conclusion.

Jamie thinks of Segs. He thinks of Segs and wishes that he could be so sure.

 

**5\. Emile and Jane Duchene (March)**

Jane and Emile Duchene have been involved in their grandson's hockey career from the beginning. Jane remembers, quite clearly, freezing her hands at six am midget practices, driving late into the night for bantam tournaments in the northern-most depths of Ontario, and answering late-night phone calls when Matt was young, homesick, and desperate for affection during his early years in the QMJHL. Now that he's an NHL superstar, with a condo and a dog and five years of professional hockey under his belt, he pays them back with a yearly trip to Denver. 

It's the highlight of Jane’s year. 

"Grandma, Grandpa," Matt calls, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the crowd at Denver International.

Jane feels Emile's fingers on her forearm, getting her attention and pointing towards their grandson. She grins, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and pulling Emile through the crowd to gather Matt into a long, strong, grandmotherly hug. He's grinning, eyes wide and mouth crinkled at the corners when he finally pulls back to get the backslap Emile always reserves just for him. Matt and Emile are so alike; Jane loves watching them interact.

"Glad you're here," he tells them, taking both their carry-ons onto his shoulders and leading the way out to his car. "I figured we could go home for a nap, then, if you're up for it, Patrick invited us for dinner?"

All year Matt's phone calls have been filled with Patrick's name. It's about time they finally meet him. "Of course," Jane replies, as Emile nods.

"Okay, good, ‘cause," Matt smiles guiltily, "I already said we would. We could cancel, but-"

Jane reaches out, looping her elbow through Matt's. "We've taught you manners, haven't we, young man?"

Matt laughs, pulling her closer.

***

"Welcome," Patrick says, incredibly sincerely, as he opens the door and reaches forward to kiss both their cheeks. French Canadians. "Come in. I have steak on the grill, so, Dutchy, can you-?" He points back into the house and Matt nods, waving him off.

Matt lets them in, toeing off his shoes and hanging up all their jackets before leading them into the kitchen. He certainly knows his way around and Jane smiles. Matt never got on well with Joe Sacco, personalities and playing-styles clashing rather spectacularly. If her grandson is anything, it's strong-willed. 

Patrick, though, seems to like Matt, enough so, at least, that's he's nervous about meeting her and Emile. She can tell, by the way Patrick's bent over the grill, his back tense, wired, and the way he jumps when Matt places a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

Matt jerks his hand back, his cheeks tinged pink. "Sorry. Razor gonna join us?"

Patrick nods, his nose crinkling. "After he showers. He was playing video games in the basement all day."

Matt laughs, rolling up his sleeves and pulling out a strainer for the boiling pot of potatoes. Without being told. He's never, in the 23 years Jane has known and raised him, seen him do anything in the kitchen without being asked twice.

"You don't-" Patrick starts, but Matt hip checks him as he carries the large pot over to the sink. 

"You're nice enough to invite us. Let me help."

Patrick looks like he's about to argue, but then shuts his mouth and shoots a small smile at Jane, as if she might judge him for it. She just laughs, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. "He's very stubborn, yes?"

Patrick blushes, just a little, just enough to make him look years younger. He's an attractive man. "Yes," he agrees, "very."

"Asshole," Matt whispers, not quite quietly enough, under his breath.

"Matty," she chastises. Patrick laughs, turning back to the indoor grill.

Nate does join them for dinner. He's eighteen, well-mannered, clearly a little homesick, a lot like Matt was at that age. Jane takes her time with him, asking him about his family and his health. He blushes, pushes back a little, but grins and kisses her on the cheek when she offers him a second dinner roll.

Patrick puts down his fork, placing his chin in his hands, elbows on the table. "Your grandson's a hell of a player."

He's not wrong, but, Jane scolds him. "Language, son."

"Ahh-" Patrick's eyes widen, as if he hasn't been chastised about his language in years. He probably hasn't. "Sorry, ma'am."

"Oh, no need to ma'am me. Not with the way you've taken Matty in."

"Grandma-"

"I've changed your diapers, so, shush." Matt goes bright red, burying his head in his hands. She ignores him in favor of patting Patrick's hand. "Matt's happier and healthier than he's been in years. From what I hear, you're to thank for that."

On her other side, Nate chokes on his steak.

Matt groans into his hands.

Patrick goes just as red as Matt as he closes his hand over hers. His eyes, though, are not on her as he says, sincerely, "He's a special man." 

Jane nods, happy that Patrick agrees. He's good for Matt, supportive, pushes him, and he's just as strong-willed.

Maybe something more, too, she surmises, as they get ready to leave. She watches them, the way Patrick reaches out, then seems to stop himself, his hand hanging awkwardly between their bodies. Matt nudges him, giving him an opportunity to slip his hand into his pocket, as if nothing had happened. Jane isn't going to tell.

"Thanks for having us. It means a lot to me, for family to spend time together."

 _Family_ , Jane thinks. Not _team_ or _friends_ , but, _family_. Patrick seems to get it, too, as he swallows audibly. "Thank you, for sharing them with me."

Matt shrugs. "Of course."

"Tomorrow?" Patrick asks, like he wants to say something different, something more; she can hear it in his voice.

Matt nods. "Tomorrow." And then he turns, hops down the steps, and joins his grandparents at the car.

Jane's never seen Matt like this, but it's familiar. She knows that voice, that little half-smile, that jump in his step; it's the same Emile had after their first date forty-four years ago, and it's the same Matt’s dad had the first time his mom brought him home for dinner. Maybe Matt and Patrick don't know it yet, but this wasn't just a dinner. This was an important, life-changing dinner. Jane doesn't know what to think about that.

***

She watches Matt carefully over the next couple of days. She's not sure what's she's looking for, and she's not sure she finds it in the way Matt hugs her as often as possible, the way he laughs even louder and more open than usual, or in the small smiles she catches him wearing when no one's around, but she's pretty sure she's found something.

She thinks about telling Emile, about recruiting him to help her watch. Emile, though, is a traditional man, from a simpler time, and Jane knows her husband. Knows the sweet, soft-spoken girl he's pictured Matt with and the blond, chatty grandchildren they'd have together. Patrick is not those things, cannot give Matt those things. 

Jane is willing to withhold judgment. For now. Emile wouldn't be so patient, at least not until she eases him into the idea.

So, she keeps her mouth shut and, on the 27th, she puts on Matt's jersey, gets a kiss on the cheek from her grandson, and takes her seat in the Avs family box as if nothing's out of the ordinary.

The Avs win, 3-2, in overtime.

"My good luck charms," Matt grins as he gathers them both into a hug outside the dressing room after the game.

Two days later, the Avs play the Sharks, on her forty-third wedding anniversary. She kind of wants to dress up for it, but Emile just shakes his head and says, "superstition," as he holds out the jersey. "Besides, I can't think of anything you'd look better in tonight."

She can't believe she still loves him, after all these years.

Following with superstition, they kiss Matt good luck in the locker room and take their seats with the wives and children and girlfriends in the family box.

Less than 30 seconds in, Matt goes down with a knee injury. Jane grasps Emile's hand as she watches Matt on the bench, grimacing and twisting his knee and trying to stand on it, before he shakes his head and follows the trainer back to the locker room.

So much for superstition.

They meet him in the trainer’s room, and he's already out of his gear, dressed in his under armour with a sweatshirt over his chest. Jane’s seen him injured enough times to know that it’s not a good sign. He barely greets them. 

"We'll bring you ice and the remote control," Matt Sokolowski tells him, which turns out to be a huge ice pack, wrapped tightly around his knee with plastic wrap, and the Avs game, so that Matt can torture himself with the end of the first period, when Pauly comes back to check on him and torture him in person.

"Patrick wanted to come, but-"

"His mind needs to stay in the game," Matt nods, grimacing as the motion jerks his knee.

"We're going to win this one for you, Matty." Pauly holds up his glove for an intricate handshake that Jane doesn't understand.

By the time the game's over, Matt's a little loopy on painkillers and the thought of missing the first round. Patrick peers in for a quick, "You okay, Matty?" before tackling the press. When he returns, his sleeves are rolled up, his tie loose around his neck, and he greets Jane and Emile with distracted kisses on their cheeks.

"How is he?" Patrick asks, when he sees that Matt is mostly asleep, his eyes fluttering as he struggles to keep them open.

Emile shrugs. "Not very happy."

"I’m sure."

Matt Sokolowski peers in, sees Patrick and grimaces. "MCL sprain. Four weeks."

"First round?"

Sokolowski shakes his head. Patrick swears in French.

"Patrick?" Matt's eyes open halfway, his hand coming just barely off the table.

Patrick lifts himself onto the table by Matt's hip, surreptitiously taking Matt's hand and hiding it with his body. "Hey."

"My MCL."

"Yeah."

"Three-and-a-half weeks."

"Four."

"Nah." Matt rests his head back, his lashes wide and wet with the pain meds. "I'll be back for the first round."

Patrick shakes his head fondly. "I want you back, but I want you healthy. You mean too much- This is too important to rush it."

Matt swallows. It's audible in the quiet of the trainer's room. "Promise you'll still be playing when I'm healed?"

"If I have anything to say about it."

"You do," Matt tells him, then, more insistent, "you do."

Patrick laughs. "How much did they give you?"

Matt waves his free hand. "Morphine. Knee injury, didn't you hear?" 

Clearly quite a bit, then.

"Let's get you home." Matt starts shaking his head and Patrick relents immediately. "To my place. I'll make up the guest room, make sure that you're mobile before I send you home with your grandparents."

"Oh yeah." Matt peers around Patrick's hips, as if he's forgotten that they're there. Jane can forgive him that tonight, though. "That okay?" He asks, voice small and a little bit desperate.

"We can help," Emile starts and Jane elbows him, hard, in the ribs. Emile frowns at her. 

Jane nods her head. "Whatever you need."

Sokolowski comes back in with pills and instructions, handing them to Patrick and taking the decision out of any of their hands, anyway.

***

Jane and Emile drive Matt’s car to Patrick's house, just to make sure that Matt's settled and comfortable. When they get there, Nate MacKinnon greets them at the door, looking a little frazzled and nervous.

"Patrick, ahh, he took Dutchy up to the guest room. Said it would take a while."

"Tea?" She asks. "I always made tea for my children after a trying day."

"Um, yeah, that would be really awesome." Nate agrees, then pulls his long-sleeve shirt over his fingers. "Actually, hot chocolate?"

"Of course, sweetie." She leads them into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Nate's already pulled five mugs from the cupboard by the time she's routed around and successfully found the drink mixes.

Nate's leaning against the counter, twitching his left leg and picking at the cuff of his shirt. "Injuries," he explains, sort of, and Jane slips a splash of whiskey into all five mugs.

She places one in front of him.

He sips it, his eyes widening. "You're so much cooler than my grandma."

She laughs. "Don't let her hear that."

"Oh, no, never ma'am."

"Good." She pats his hand. She leaves Emile’s mug on the table, but goes to grab the other two, when Nate stops her.

"Let me," he offers, and leads her up the stairs to the guestroom, stopping at the door. "Um," he blushes. "We should probably, ahh, knock."

He does, but when there isn't an answer, Jane pushes the door open. Matt's in bed, knee raised with a pile of pillows and wrapped tightly in ice. Patrick's lying next to him, head on Matt's pillow, not touching, but close enough to be sharing breath. He's murmuring to Matt, low French that Matt is clearly only half-aware of, but when the door opens, he sits up, running his hand through his hair.

"Je m'excuse," Patrick whispers, then, "sorry," as if he's done something wrong enough to apologize for in two languages.

She raises the mugs and he takes them both, placing one on Matt's bedside table before motioning her outside. He leans against the wall in the hallway, hands clutched around his mug.

"You have questions?"

Only one, she realizes, with a start. "Do you love my grandson?"

He smiles a small, slightly embarrassed, little smile. He doesn't have to think about his answer. "Yes."

She nods. "You're too old for him."

"I know." 

"I expect grandchildren."

To her satisfaction, he nods. "Give us some time."

"Time, I've got."

He laughs, low, so as not to disturb Matt. "I can see where he gets his spirit."

"Nah," she shakes her head. "You haven't really gotten to know my husband yet."

"I'd like to. You're family." Easy, as easily as Matt had said it last night. 

Jane wonders how she didn't know something this big was happening in Matt's life. She feels, a little bit, like she’s failed at her meddling-grandmother role.

"I'd like to-" he nods back into the room.

"Of course."

"Thank you for the tea."

"My pleasure." She means it.

***

They spend the night at Matt's, but head back over to Patrick’s first thing the next morning, Paisley in tow. Nate lets them in, dressed in low-slung shorts and still sweaty from a workout.

"Put on a shirt, son," Jane chastises him.

"Sorry ma'am." He takes their jackets to hang them up. "They're in the living room, I'm just gonna-" He motions to the basement and doesn't wait for confirmation before taking off. 

In the living room, Patrick's sitting on the coffee table in front of Matt, just as sweaty and red-faced as Nate, hands on Matt's knee.

"Jesus fuck, Patrick," Matt whines, reaching down to put his hand over Patrick's to still them.

"Stop bitching and this will go faster."

Matt's fingers tighten over Patrick's, assuring, comforting, and Patrick sighs. "The trainers can do this. In an hour. After I've had another pain pill."

"You have to listen to your body. If it hurts, it hurts for a reason."

"Yeah, well, it hurts like fuck, so-"

Jane decides she's seen enough. "Language, Matty," she chastises, and Matt's head whips around, grinning at her at the same time as his hand pulls back so quickly she's surprised he doesn't pull something else. Paisley bounds towards him, and he buries both his hands in Paisley’s fur.

"Hey, buddy. Hey, Grandma."

She pats his shoulder. "Not feeling any better?"

Matt shrugs. "It's hard to tell, with these things."

"No," Patrick answers for him. "He's not."

Matt rolls his eyes. Jane ignores them both.

"I'm going to make breakfast. I expect you," she points at Matt, "to watch your language at the table. And you," she points at Patrick, because if he's going to be her son-in-law, he'd better get the rules down now, "shower before we eat."

"Yes ma'am," they both chorus, and she smiles approvingly as she heads into the kitchen to find eggs, bacon, and toast.

"Jane?" Emile asks, leaning against the counter and staring at her. "You have something to tell me?"

She really thought she'd have more time before he figured it out. She loves him, but he’s never been the most observant of men. "Why would you say that?"

"The way you treated Patrick out there-"

"He's Matt's coach. He matters to our grandson."

"It's more than that," he argues. She is way too darn predictable.

She sighs. "You are not to bug them about it."

"Matt is-? With _his coach_?"

"Yes." She starts cracking eggs into a large bowl. She has a number of hockey players to feed this morning.

"Huh."

"Uh huh."

"You could have told me." Emile says, petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I didn't want you to lose your top."

"I wouldn't have." She stares at him. "I'm not."

"You are."

"Only a little."

She shakes her head. "You're in charge of making the bacon."

"Al right."

She smiles. Everything's going to be alright.

 

**+1 Matt Duchene and Patrick Roy (May)**

When Matt was drafted, he thought he had made it. He'd worked hard for fifteen years, through minors, Juniors, the combine, to be drafted third overall by the Avs. His mom posted pictures of him, nine years old and decked out in an Avs baseball cap and Forsberg jersey; everyone knew he was an Avs fan, that he would play hard for this team, lead it back to the kind of team it was under Forsberg, Sakic, Foote, Roy.

The team was young, sure, but young is good, young means rebuild and years of long playoff runs in their future. Young didn't mean a first year loss in the first round, followed by three years of the post-season as a distant, remote hope.

He didn't expect the frustrations of the transition to the NHL, the injuries, the self-recrimination.

He didn't expect to butt heads with Joe Sacco's playing style and spend weeks - months - in Sacco's doghouse.

He didn't expect the lockout, or the 29th place finish when they were finally allowed to play again. 

He certainly didn't expect all this to end with Patrick.

Patrick, who's passionate and positive, who introduced him to Ray Bourque and Steve Osgood and calls the relationship between a coach and his players a "partnership," in every sense. Gone are the doghouse, the quiet locker room, the bottom-of-the-conference mentality. Patrick believes in open lines of communication, between the press and coaches, between management and players, and between himself and his players. 

They want to play for him, with him. They're _his_ team, as much as they are Denver's or Joe Sakic's.

Matt never expected to love him. As a mentor, maybe; as an idol, sure; but, not like this. Not fully, unquestionably, with a surety that settled deep in Matt's chest in October and hasn't moved since. And Matt could ignore it, he really could, if he wasn't so sure that it's settled in Patrick, too.

Matt feels it, Patrick's eyes dark and impassioned on the back of Matt's neck, after their game six loss in San Jose. He feels it in the brush of Patrick's arm against his, warm pressure between their seats as Matt watches the clouds go by. They made it to the Western Conference finals. It's farther than anyone thought they would; farther, even, than Patrick expected for this, their first year of what everyone assumes will be many. 

"Come back with me," Patrick asks, demands, and Matt feels it. His chest aches, and he doesn't have it in him to argue.

It's late, long after 2 am, and Nate disappears into the basement. Matt sighs, heading up to drop his overnight bag in the guest room. Matt's started to think of it as his room, these days.

"I'm just going to-" Patrick points behind him, towards his closed bedroom door. It's the only room Matt's never seen. "It's been a long night."

"All right," Matt nods. He kind of wants a beer. Maybe something stronger.

Patrick, though, doesn't move from where he's leaning in the doorway. His tie is loose, the cuffs of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows, and he looks exhausted in a way he hasn't all season.

Matt's exhausted, too, and his knee aches, and if he's not going to get a beer, then he's not going to stay awake, either. He shrugs, pulling at his belt and stepping out of his slacks, before starting on the buttons of his dress shirt. The door closes and he looks up, figuring that Patrick's gone to his own room, but Patrick's there, leaning against the closed door, eyes hard on Matt even as his fingers are moving deftly over the buttons of his own shirt.

"To sleep," Patrick says, when Matt looks up, and Matt nods. It's more than he was hoping for, when he agreed to come over. It's Patrick's way of meeting Matt halfway, and Matt's chest tightens again. He's not sure it's ever gonna stop, where Patrick's concerned.

They slip into bed, not exactly touching, but Matt can feel the heat of Patrick's body, and he turns onto his side, palm spread over Patrick's undershirt. He can feel Patrick's breathing and he sighs, scooting close enough that their feet are touching.

"Tell me we'll get another chance," Matt whispers into the dark. After the game, Patrick had told them all that this season was only the beginning, but Matt needs to hear it, from Patrick, not his coach.

"In three months," Patrick promises, as if it's no time at all. Said like that, it isn't.

"Does it get easier? Losing?"

Patrick shakes his head. "No." He pulls Matt close to him. "But having you here, that makes it a little easier."

Matt feels warm. Still sad and frustrated and angry with himself, but warm enough to almost forget to feel any of it.

***

"The Hawks made it this far the year before they won the Cup," Pauly tells him, clanking their shot glasses together.

"Yeah," Matt agrees, because it's true. They went from last place in the West to Conference finals in eleven months, and that's pretty damn impressive. Doesn't make it hurt any less, now that he's rested enough to feel it.

"To a great season," He tips back his shot.

Pauly passes him another. "To the return of good hockey to Colorado."

"I'll drink to that." Matt tips his second shot back. "The rest of our careers, Pauly," he says, breathlessly, his head loose and his skin tight.

"Yeah," Pauly agrees. "We're gonna be great."

"Yep." Because they are. Tonight, this series, this season, it's the first of the rest of their lives, Matt feels it in his bones like a turning point pulling at his elbows until he pays it attention. 

Matt's paying attention, now.

"I've gotta go."

"Dutchy-?"

"Sorry." Matt pushes his chair back and digs through his pockets, pulling out a handful of bills and dropping them on the table. "Sorry, I've just- this isn't where I'm supposed to be."

Pauly's face softens. "About time."

Matt holds out his hand for a fist bump before he heads out into the warm, sticky May humidity to call a cab. He's wearing board shorts and an Avs t-shirt, and he wipes his hands along the hem as he waits outside Patrick’s door. He has a key, has since October, but this is different. He needs Patrick's permission this time.

"Matt?" Patrick asks as he opens the door. His pupils are a little dilated. He's been drinking.

"I'm here," Matt says, shaking his head. It's worth saying, after all this time. "I don't want to be anywhere else."

"I shouldn't want you to be here," Patrick says, tiredly, leaning against the doorframe. Matt's pretty tired of this too. "But, I do."

It's nice to hear. It's always nice to hear. Patrick's so good with words. 

_I have waited forever for you._

_Je t'adore. I adore you._

_Je te veux. I want you._

_I want to kiss you._

Matt's known for months that they're true; known that, someday, he and Patrick will become a reality, and Matt's been comfortable in that inevitability.

Matt's done with that.

"I'm making my move." He warns. "Stop me if you're not ready."

Matt doesn't, honestly, know what he's hoping for. If he wants Patrick to bring them both to their senses, raise his hand against Matt's chest and push him away; or if he wants Patrick to, finally, give in and pull Matt close, closer, until there's never any space between them again.

Patrick does neither.

He leans forward, touches his lips to Matt's in little more than a sigh and, when he speaks, his breath is hitched, ragged, shattered. "Be sure."

"I am."

Patrick shakes his head, his lips brushes tantalizingly over Matt's. "I can be a patient man, but, with you- If we start this, Matt, I won't be able to stop."

Patrick's voice smooths out over Matt's name, dangerous and broken and everything Matt wants. "I know," he whispers, raising his hand to settle on Patrick's hip, settling him, promising him _now_ and _tomorrow_ and-

"Forever," Patrick finishes for him, as if it's a warning and not the beginning of the rest of Matt's life.

"Yeah," Matt grins against Patrick's mouth. "I know the stakes here."

Patrick hums against Matt's lips.

"Do you?" Matt asks, because, Jesus, they've been here, almost here, so many times over the past nine months, and Matt's all in, emotionally, physically, has been for months, and the thought that Patrick isn't, that Patrick's been playing him-. 

Matt swallows, taking a slow, tentative step back, not sure he wants to play his last card, but if he was able to help himself, they wouldn't even be here.

There's an awful moment, thick and humid between them, where Matt thinks this is it, the end, that Patrick's going to just let him walk away. But then Patrick's hands are on Matt's hips, pulling him forward, up, so close that Matt can barely breath, and it's like the seal's been broken, because Patrick's twisting them, pushing Matt up against the side of the house and kissing him, hard and wet and all-consuming, all-in.

Patrick has a few inches and a number of pounds on him, and Matt feels surrounded by him, hands on either side of Matt's head, the shuttered in-and-out of his chest against Matt's as they both struggle for breath, the hard, insistent heat of Patrick's dick against Matt's thigh. Matt's thought about this, jerked-off to it, in weak moments imagined what Patrick must look like under his suits and wind-breakers, but Matt's imagination holds nothing to the reality of having Patrick here, over him, kissing him.

Matt wants to touch.

Patrick groans, deep in his chest, when Matt gets his hands under Patrick's shirt and flattens his palm against the small of Patrick's back. Skin on skin and Matt's half-hard before Patrick even touches him. Hard and pressed up against Patrick's front door, not so late on a warm Denver night that Patrick's neighbors might not be out, with cameras and video phones and- "Inside," Matt says, his voice catching in his throat as he moves his hand to press against Patrick's chest. "Before your neighbors-"

Patrick drops his head, presses quick, wet kisses into the juncture of Matt's neck and shoulder. Matt's dick twitches against Patrick's thigh and Patrick chuckles, pulling back and, pretty unsuccessfully, adjusting himself.

Matt doesn't bother, just pushes open the front door and heads inside. He knows this house as well as he knows his own apartment, and he doesn't wait for Patrick as he makes his way upstairs, taking a step towards the guest room, _his_ guest room, before straightening his back and heading to the closed door of Patrick's bedroom. He pauses at the door, fingers twisted around the door knob.

"It's yours as much as mine." Patrick leans against the wall near Matt's elbow, reaching out to press his fingers against Matt's wrist. "Has been since I redecorated."

Matt remembers it, the painters and the furniture delivery men. They had roped Nate and Matt into helping, with only pizza and some (for Nate, underage) beer for their trouble. It was months ago.

Matt presses into Patrick's touch, sighing deeply because this is it, his final chance to turn back, pretend this didn't happen, go back to emotionally-charged conversations and small, shared touches rife with sexual tension. 

Matt turns the nob.

Patrick lets out a sigh Matt didn't know he was holding, hot and harsh against Matt's neck, and Matt turns, just over the threshold, and pulls Patrick close by the hem of his shirt. He feels happy, giddy with the surety of it all, and he laughs against Patrick's lips, grinning into their kiss.

Patrick chuckles, too, his shoulders going loose and easy, and he wraps his hands around Matt's hips, walking them back to the bed and pushing Matt onto it. "Strip," he orders, the same voice he uses on the ice, the voice Matt's been getting off to in the shower, and his bedroom, and on the road when he's sure everyone else is asleep.

He's pretty sure he's blushing, and he's pretty sure it stretches down his chest, if not from Patrick's voice, then from the way he stares at Matt as Matt pulls his t-shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. Which is ridiculous, because Patrick's seen him before, many, many times, wandering through the locker room while Matt's in a towel, or his briefs, or nothing at all. 

"You've seen me," Matt tells him. He knows Patrick's looked because, well, "I've looked," every time Patrick changed with the door to the coach's room open.

Patrick laughs, a wide, open mouthed grin, as he shakes his head. "Have you?"

"Oh yeah," Matt agrees, easily.

"Maybe," Patrick bites at the edge of his lip, and shrugs, "maybe I've looked, too." He reaches out, tracing his fingers over Matt's collarbone, then starting a slow, purposeful trail down Matt's chest, over his stomach and stopping just above the waistband of his shorts. "Haven't touched, though."

Matt's breath hitches, his dick heavy, arching up towards Patrick's hand and he can't keep his hips from stuttering off the mattress. "No," he agrees, clutching at the hem of Patrick's shirt and urging it over his head. "Me either."

Patrick's not exactly in playing condition, but he's not far off, either, and the two inches he has on Matt makes him feel bigger, wider, broader. Matt spreads his fingers and places his palms flat against Patrick's chest, feeling him, the way Patrick's heartbeat speeds up and his chest breathes in and out deeply against Matt's hands. It feels intimate, like he's inside Patrick, seeing him from the inside-out, and Matt reaches down, pushing at Patrick's sweatpants, desperate for more, for everything. 

He's also pretty aware of how hard he is, desperate for Patrick's hand or his mouth or whatever Patrick will give him. He raises his hips, helping Patrick pull his shorts off and then Patrick's settling over him, skin on skin, Patrick's dick pressing into his stomach and Matt thrusting, gently, against Patrick's hip. 

"Beau," Patrick breathes, wrapping his fingers around Matt's dick, and Matt fits, perfectly, in the wide palm of Patrick's hand. _Beautiful_.

Matt groans, throwing his head back and letting himself just feel, for a long moment, until he's worried he's going to come long before he wants to. He wraps his legs around Patrick's back and flips them, spreading his thighs over Patrick's and leaning down to kiss him. Patrick raises his neck to meet him, tongue wet and lips swollen and slow as he chases Matt's mouth.

"Sorry, just- I need to-" Matt thrusts, twice, against Patrick's hip, shivering with pleasure before he wraps his own hand around Patrick's dick.

"Oui, oui," Patrick lifts his head so that he can watch Matt, moaning as he lets Matt explore. "Tu m'excites beaucoup." _You turn me on_. 

Matt takes his time getting to know him. The way Patrick curves to the right. The spot under Patrick's head that has him whimpering and leaking onto Matt's thumb. The way Patrick's whole body tightens and shudders when Matt traces the heavy, purple vein on the underside of his dick.

A stream of encouragement leaves Patrick's mouth, urging Matt on. "Ca fait du bien." _That feels good_. "C'est si bon." _That's so good_.

Matt doesn't think he'll ever forget the look and feel of Patrick as he tightens his fist and sets a fast, tight rhythm. He knows when Patrick's close, loves the guttural groans and cut-off grunts, the low stream of French that's leaving Patrick's mouth, dirty and beautiful and when Patrick gets out "oh oui, encore," _oh yes, again_ , Matt twists his fist, in exactly the same way, and Patrick comes, his legs lifting off the bed, eyes closed, hands clenched tightly over Matt's hips.

"Okay?" Matt asks, leaning down to press gentle kisses along Patrick's neck as he works Patrick through the aftershocks, his fingers wet and dirty.

"More than," Patrick promises, flipping them over and taking a long moment to look at Matt. He reaches out to touch the fingerprints on Matt's hips, blushed against Matt's pale skin. "I'm sorry."

Matt shakes his head. "Nah, it's good."

Patrick shakes his head in disbelief, chuckling. "I don't deserve you, but, permettez-moi de toi." _Let me have you_. 

"Yeah, yeah," Matt agrees, arching his hips, desperate, needy, and Patrick takes pity on him, wrapping his fingers tightly around him. "Next time, yeah?" Matt suggests, because he's not going to make it through an exploration like the one Matt made of him.

Patrick nods, seeming to understand, because he sets a steady, wet rhythm, a little harder than Matt's used too, a little tighter, but it doesn't matter. It's Patrick, and that's all that Matt really needs. He comes, much faster than he'd like, reaching for Patrick's mouth and kissing him through it.

"Bien?" Patrick asks, as he spreads out along Matt's side.

It's an absurd question, and Matt stretches, feeling the end-of-season ache in his muscles and a sharper, more acute pang in his knee. "If I say yes, will it make you unbearable?"

Patrick shrugs. "If it's deserved."

Matt shakes his head, turning onto his side and pulling Patrick with him. Patrick's half-hard against Matt's thigh, and Matt presses back, not insistent, just a pleasant reminder that Matt does this to him, that seeing Matt, naked and coming, overcomes whatever refractory period Patrick might have.

The knowledge deserves something, and Matt wraps his fingers around Patrick's, where they're tracing the marks on Matt's hip. Matt can already feel himself drifting, but, "Better than good," he manages. "Wore me out."

Patrick hums, self-satisfied, pressing a kiss to the back of Matt's neck. "Je t'aime."

***

Patrick's already gone when Matt wakes up the next morning. He thinks about staying in bed, but he can smell coffee from downstairs and his knee is aching, so he decides that getting up for caffeine and an ice pack is probably the better plan. It's early, still a little chilly out, and all he has are his shorts from the night before, so he digs through Patrick's drawers for an old pair of Avs sweatpants with the number '33' embroidered on the front pocket. 

He should probably have expected Nate to already be sitting at the kitchen table, white knuckles clenched around a 'Mon Père" mug, looking queasy and hung-over. He's always been a morning person. 

Nate wasn't in Matt's plan, though, and he kind of stands there, awkwardly, trying not to stare at Patrick and shifting uncomfortably on his knee. Which is stupid. He's wearing Patrick's sweatpants, a shirt that's a size or two too big, and probably more than one mouth-sized bruise on his collarbone. Nate knows exactly what they were up to last night.

He steps forward, saying, as steadily as he can, "morning," and burying his face in the freezer before he can look at Nate.

Nate grunts. Matt laughs, finding an ice pack and closing the door.

Patrick chuckles, piling eggs onto a plate and pushing them in front of Nate. "Eat."

Nate grunts again, but he grabs his fork and stabs the scrambled eggs. Even hung-over as hell he can eat more than Matt and Patrick put together. He laughs, catching Patrick's eye and repeating, quieter, "morning."

Patrick's hand burns on Matt's hip and Matt can barely breathe as Patrick leans in for a quick kiss. Matt isn't insecure, but, still, it's a nice reminder.

"Okay?" He asks, nodding at the ice pack.

"Yeah," Matt promises. "Knee's gonna ache for a while yet."

"If anything ever gets too much-" Patrick starts, cut off by Nate's loud protest.

"I'm glad you finally figured things out, or whatever, but, I can't hear about it. Please," Nate whines, voice high and rough. His plate is almost empty already.

"Could have meant morning jogs," Patrick shrugs, but Nate buries his head in his hands with a loud groan.

"I hate you. Both of you."

"I know when you're lying," Matt insists, sitting next to Nate at the kitchen table and situating the ice pack on his knee. Patrick hands him a cup of coffee and puts another large plate of eggs in the middle of the table.

As he takes his seat, Patrick presses his leg against Matt's. Nate pretends not to notice, choosing, valiantly, to reach for more breakfast instead. Matt grins at Patrick, curling their ankles together. He could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to chat about the Avs, baby NHL teams, age gaps, or rare pairs, comment here or find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/)!


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